


The Ethics of the Antichrist, Tolkien, and Marriage

by joanofarcstan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - Professors, M/M, Philosophy, reposted because website glitches...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanofarcstan/pseuds/joanofarcstan
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale mightde factobe married ethics professors, but that doesn't mean they agree on said ethics.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授权翻译】敌基督、托尔金以及婚姻的伦理学](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29343657) by [lynnlovego](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnlovego/pseuds/lynnlovego)



> 0\. There's some problem with Ao3 where if you upload after 8PM, the work just doesn't show up. That, predictably, is annoying to me. Hence the reupload  
> 1\. I have read too much Kant and Bentham for my own sanity.

It is generally agreed that there is no better occasion for debating philosophy than the night before finals season, over good wine, sitting at a paper-stacked table in a dimly-lit bookshop, and surrounded with rare manuscripts and first editions.

‘If the world was to end,’ said Crowley, swirling the contents of his glass of wine, ‘and you could stop it by removing just one person, would you do it?’

‘Removing?’ asked Aziraphale, narrowing his eyes. He pushed the stack of books aside to peer at Crowley. ‘You mean to _kill_ a person? No. No, God Almighty, _no_. I can’t believe you’d even suggest that!’

‘I'm afraid you don’t understand.’ Crowley tugged the sleeves of his shirt back and leaned forwards, setting his forearms on the table in a gesture that was all too casually attractive. ‘You could save the whole world. One life, against the universe.’ He raised his eyebrows as if to say _There, done_.

Aziraphale laughed, half-disbelieving. ‘What gives me the right to take lives—’

‘Not lives. Only one.’

‘What gives me the right to take a life? What gives me the right to play God?’

‘You’re the only one who can do it.’

Aziraphale shook his head, smiling uneasily. ‘Surely that isn’t realistic.’

‘It’s a thought experiment, angel, not a reality,’ said Crowley, leaning back and tipping his chair onto it back two legs. With his sleeves rolled up and the top button of his shirt undone, he was a tempting sight, no matter how annoyingly utilitarian. ‘So. The world ends, unless you kill one person, and you are the only person who can do it. Do you do it?’

‘No,’ said Aziraphale vehemently. ‘How do we know I'm not wrong, or delusional—’

‘You’re not wrong or delusional.’

‘Even so, how could you justify it if killing became permissible for everyone?’ He shuddered. ‘That would be a dark world indeed.’

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley downed the rest of his wine. ‘This person is the Antichrist,’ he said. ‘Surely it’s not immoral to kill the Antichrist.’

‘Ah—but it is,’ said Aziraphale, pointing a finger at Crowley. ‘The Antichrist hasn’t done anything yet, have they? In killing them, I would be judging crimes that have not yet been committed, and that violates every kind of moral maxim.’

‘It would be self-defence,’ Crowley pointed out. ‘Pre-emptive, but still self-defence.’

‘Pre-emptive self-defence doesn’t exist. The argument from self-defence only exists when the threat is reasonably dangerous and immediate, and the Antichrist hasn’t tried to hurt anyone yet, so there is no justification for killing them. It would be like killing any other ordinary person.’ Earnestly, he insisted, ‘We must give the opportunity for free will, Crowley.’

Crowley huffed and poured himself another glass of wine, sipping at it more slowly this time. ‘You Kantians are insufferable. What is one life against a universe? There are seven and a half billion people and trillions more living things on Earth alone. What is one Antichrist compared to that?’ The wine painted his lips a fetching red and combined with the lovely amber of his eyes, so rarely not hidden behind sunglasses, to soften the sharper disagreements from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale raised his hands. ‘I could say the same about you utilitarians,’ he said, wrinkling his nose; then paused to drink from his own cup and savour the crisp, smoky taste of his best-aged wine. ‘Ah. Excellent.’ The fond twitch of Crowley’s lips made a faint blush rise on his cheeks, but he went on, ‘You make your situations into exceptions, but don’t realize that every situation can be made into an exception in the mind of the wrong person! It is dangerous to even suggest that it is sometimes permissible to kill outside of self-defence. How do you think people will interpret _sometimes_?’

‘Are you saying people are bad, angel?’ A teasing glint shone in Crowley’s eye.

Aziraphale was indignant all the same. ‘Why, of course not!’ he exclaimed, setting his glass down with a clink. ‘People are naturally well-intentioned—don’t start with me now, you fiend; that’s another argument—but they’ll try to justify immoral or amoral actions with their good intentions instead of letting good intentions _guide_ their actions.’

‘The road to Hell,’ Crowley declared, drawling and dramatic, the stem of his glass held loosely between his fingers, ‘is paved with good intentions.’ He flipped his flame-red hair for good measure.

‘Fiend,’ retorted Aziraphale fondly. ‘You know that isn’t what I meant.’

They were treading well-worn paths now, replaying old arguments they had had in the theses and rebuttals of papers; but Aziraphale didn’t mind, not when he got to drink fine wine; see Crowley relaxed and satisfied, draped carelessly over his comfortable chair; and gaze into his warm eyes, amber like a sunbeam on honey, here where the lights were soft and dim enough that they didn’t hurt. And Crowley didn’t seem to mind either, judging by how he smiled a little wider and let his head fall back against the cushioned back of the chair. Even philosophers like easy things sometimes.

It was well-known among philosophy students that the two professors who shared a closet for an office could not be more different than night and day or Heaven and Hell. On the Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays that Aziraphale (or A. Z. Fell, as he was listed in a never-corrected error by a bored, underpaid student in the university directory) held command of the single desk, papers were organized by class, topic, and alphabetically by student. On the back wall hung framed quote of Kant’s summary of the categorical imperative—which was taken down and hidden in the corner with a black sheet tossed over it, on the Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays that Anthony J. (Janthony, as the bored student had scribbled) Crowley occupied the closet-cum-office. Papers—essays labelled ‘TO MARK,’ decade-old lesson plans, grant applications with creatively rude invectives scrawled on them—decorated over desk with no semblance of order; and of course Crowley’s own sharp-minded, sharper-tongued personality jammed into leather jackets and tight jeans added to the dearly-beloved chaos.

‘Midterm season,’ said Crowley suddenly, sitting up and flipping through the papers on the table, ‘starts tomorrow—shit!’

‘Actually,’ said Aziraphale, looking at the clock, ‘starts today.’

‘Shit!’

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, dear boy, haven’t you written the exam yet?’

Crowley swept the useless papers to the ground and stood with a grimace, swaying on his feet. Pointing a pen to his temple, he said, ‘It’s all up here, but I forgot to put it on paper!’ He shook his head and lurched away from the table. ‘I’ve got to write it. Now.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Aziraphale, standing too and catching Crowley’s arm. ‘You aren’t driving anywhere.’

‘Just tipsy—’

‘And you can use the computer in the front room, dear. Here, don’t forget your sunglasses.’ The look Crowley gave him—wondering, adoring, relieved—was priceless. Smiling, Aziraphale herded Crowley over to the computer, snagging a blanket along the way to wrap around Crowley's narrow shoulders. ‘I’ll make some hot cocoa for you.’ With a peck to Crowley’s cheek, he turned away and bustled off, humming the introduction to Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto. He knew Crowley was blushing most endearingly.

When he came back with the cocoa and cookies (who didn't have a supply of cookies at all times?), Crowley was grinning. Diabolically.

This was either very good, or very bad, or both.

‘Oh—angel, listen to this. _In a well-written essay, discuss the roles that differing views of ethics play in the scene portraying the abdication of Finrod Felagund in J. R. R. Tolkien’s_ The Silmarillion, _Chapter Nineteen: "Of Beren and Lúthien_ ,"’ Crowley read from the screen, snickering delightedly. ‘Isn’t that absolutely diabolical?’

'Kantianism, virtue ethics, utilitarianism, egoism, and contract theory in one question?' Aziraphale peered over his shoulder, setting a steaming mug and cookie tin a safe distance from Crowley's elbow. 'Efficient, at least. But will your students know what you're talking about?'

Crowley looked up at him, seeming very adorable and very husband-shaped wrapped in Aziraphale's fluffy blanket, though the doomsday sunglasses and wild flame-like hair made him seem rather more demonic. Grinning wickedly, he prophesied, 'They're going to _cry_.'

'Dearie, you've got to write a _fair_ exam. You don't want Gabriel and Beelzebub to bring you into their office for a "talking-to," do you?' Aziraphale shuddered at the thought, wrapping his hands more firmly around the warm mug. 'There will be strong words.'

'They share an office now?!' Crowley seemed to have taken the exact wrong piece of information from Aziraphale's warning. 'What's next, _marriage_?'

'They're like us, darling.' Aziraphale fought to keep from dissolving into laughter at Crowley's incredulity. 'They keep meaning to get married, but then it always devolves into a debate about the institution of marriage. At least, that's what Michael tells me.'

'The institution of marriage is an outdated tool of the heteropatriarchy,' said Crowley.

'Yes, dear, but we still plan on getting married. Just for the celebration, the tax benefits, and the cake.'

'Of course.' Crowley rubbed his face. 'Oh God. How I feel about them getting—getting _married_ — _them_ , getting _married_ —is this how our students think about _us_?' He squinted, drawing his brows together, then said, 'No, wait. They're less believable than us. _We_ just disagree on ethics. If you should do A or B in Situation X. _They_ disagree on free will! Gabriel's a hard determinist—there is no free will—and Beelzebub's a soft determinist—there _is_ free will! How on Earth… how has no murder happened yet? At least Gabriel could claim that he had no choice but to murder them!'

Aziraphale resisted the urge to tell Crowley that he knew what soft and hard determinism were, and that no murder had happened because they were in a clearly-negotiated, well-communicated partnership, and said patiently, 'Yes, dear. Now back to your exam. That isn't a fair question, is it?'

'Huh?' Squinting at the screen again and throwing his arms around carelessly, Crowley nearly knocked over his mug of cocoa, which Aziraphale quickly moved out of his reach. 'Oh, that.' He grinned once more, diabolically, and declared, ' _Yes_.'

'Yes, it's fair?'

'Yes.' Crowley's unhinged grin grew wider with every word. 'I assigned the "Of Beren and Lúthien" chapter of that book as reading… _and never followed up on it_.' Before Aziraphale could state any contract-ethics-inspired objections, Crowley leaned back, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, adding, 'I made it clear that there would be _something_ involving that material on the exam, and—' he hissed the last three words, sounding rather like the End Times were at hand '— _here it is_.'

Aziraphale shook his head and took a cookie from the tin, content to watch as Crowley leaned back in his chair and sipped his cocoa, still cackling diabolically.

______________________________________

'If I have to read one more essay claiming that Curufin and Celegorm are utilitarians and not moral egoists, I will burn it and roast its author over the flames!'

'You brought this upon yourself, dearie.'

'Ngk.'


	2. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley is massively disappointed with his class. Oh, and Anathema finds out that he and Aziraphale are married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the sequel i was talking about... wrote it and promptly forgot i'd written it

The division of office hours was strict, and well adhered-to. Most students had never seen Aziraphale and Crowley together in the same context; and from this most had extrapolated, perhaps not unjustifiably, that they hated each other. The thought seemed to run that Mr. Fell was simply too nice and non-confrontational, so he avoided Crowley, and Crowley, out of respect for their little social contract, avoided him right back.

At least, all students agreed, if it was much less dramatic, it was much more peaceful than Gabriel and Beelzebub’s office down the hall:

‘Hard determinism!’

‘Soft determinism!’

Those words should not be taken out of context, thought Aziraphale as he made his way down the narrow hallway on a Friday morning, Crowley’s lunch—affectionate note and all—in hand, thinking to surprise his husband.

‘Free will is an illusion!’

‘Saying that is pulling the wool over the eyes of the masses!’

‘MARX?!’

Gabriel was not entirely unjustified in his (false) conclusion that Beelzebub was a Marxist, it being that Marx had declared religion, which was admittedly more hard determinist than soft, to be ‘the opium of the masses.’ One would think, however, that having been a couple for the better part of twenty years would have had Gabriel realize that his partner was not a Marxist, though they were an anarchist. Aziraphale shrugged, and opened the door to his and Crowley’s closet of and office—

‘Mr. Fell?!’

—and narrowly missed hitting a student, jammed into the space between the desk and the door.

‘Oh! Um, hello. I’m terribly sorry; I didn’t think there would be anyone here, Miss…’

‘Anathema Device,’ said the young lady after a moment, still staring at him like the sun had risen in the west.

‘Miss Device. I didn’t think Crowley usually had students in a few minutes before lunch, but I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Aziraphale said, extending a hand to her and smiling. Behind the desk, Crowley was wearing an increasingly-pained expression, drawing his brows together and holding his forehead.

‘The pleasure is mine,’ said the young Miss Device faintly, now looking at the paper bag in Aziraphale’s hand. ‘Is that… is that a bag with Mr. Crowley’s name and a… _heart_ drawn on it?’

Aziraphale beamed. ‘Crowley, dear, I brought you lunch! I thought to surprise you, but I guess I surprised two of you today!’

Still looking pained, Crowley lifted his eyes and smiled awkwardly, blushing furiously. ‘Right. Yeah. Ngk.’ He reached out to take the package from Aziraphale, setting it on the messy desk, and mumbled, ‘Thanks, angel.’

Anathema’s gaze darted between the two of them, her expression disbelieving but pleased. ‘I never even _thought_ of you as married!’ she exclaimed, then reddened at her hasty words. ‘Well, congratulations!’

‘Thank you; that’s very kind,’ said Aziraphale at exactly the same moment that Crowley choked, ‘We’re _not_.’

Aziraphale gave Crowley a look. ‘Yes, yes, the historical and contract-ethical debates aside, we are married for all intents and purposes, and not porpoises.’ As Crowley reached for his thermos, Aziraphale handed it to him.

‘So it _can_ work!’ Anathema clapped her hands together. ‘I need to tell that to Newt!’ Shaking her head, she explained, ‘He’s a hard materialist and won’t listen to a word about dualism. Thinks Descartes was crazy.’

Exchanging a look with Aziraphale, Crowley shrugged. ‘If Gabriel and Beelzebub can manage it with all their free-will problems, I don’t see why you can’t.’

‘Exactly! Thank you!’ Like the wind, Anathema rushed out the door with her book bag, sending papers flying to the ground. Aziraphale bent to pick them up.

‘You’re… welcome?’ Crowley replied, but Anathema was already gone. He looked to Aziraphale. ‘She left her essay outline here.’

‘I’m sure she’ll come back.’

‘And _I’m_ sure that within the hour the entire campus will know,’ Crowley groaned, flicking the light switch off so he could toss his sunglasses on the desk and rub his eyes. ‘My reputation will be _ruined_.’ He fell limply onto the desk.

Blinking, Aziraphale took one of Crowley’s hands. ‘Surely it isn’t that bad,’ he said hesitantly, because the last thing he wanted to do was somehow ruin Crowley’s reputation, ‘being associated with me?’

Crowley jerked up. ‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, it’s you, but it’s not your fault! Ngk.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘I’m terrible at this. No,’ he declared, looking up at Aziraphale, a furious blush visible on his cheeks even in the dim light. ‘Being associated with you is great! I—’ he choked a little and blushed harder ‘—I love you a lot! i just… I won’t be scary anymore! Ngk.’

Aziraphale blinked once, twice, very slowly, reaching over to pat down the unruly fringe of Crowley’s red hair, the flame-shade of which now matched his cheeks. ‘You… won’t be scary anymore?’

‘Ngk,’ Crowley lamented. ‘All my students will think I’m a big softie at heart and they won’t have the fear of Crowley in them anymore; and they’ll tell the plants, and the plants will rise up in rebellion…’

‘Right to revolution, dearie, do you remember? And you _are_ soft at heart; don’t think I haven’t noticed how you pick the books you think will help your students before the office opens, or how you’ll print anyone’s essay who asks.’ Aziraphale smiled fondly and booped his husband on the nose. ‘They already know you’re soft in your own way. They’ll just also know now that I’m your husband.’

Crowley’s expression softened, though he didn’t stop blushing. ‘Ngk.’ But he caught Aziraphale’s hand as it withdrew, and kissed it. ‘You’re right. Maybe it won’t be so bad. The plants still don’t have the right to revolution, though. John Locke can bugger right off!’

—

Crowley could still put the fear of Crowley into his students, but not through the way one might think, Aziraphale thought, smiling as he watched Crowley swagger along the front of the lecture hall. The topic at hand was _midterm examinations_.

‘ _Some_ of you,’ drawled Crowley, dragging out the first syllable, ‘somehow decided that Curufin and Celegorm were utilitarians— _utilitarians_! Of all things! An insult to utilitarians everywhere!’ He whirled around and thwacked the projector screen, which said, in flaming red text, _CIVIL WAR_. ‘What kind of utilitarian threatens civil war to serve their own ends? Do you call that utilitarianism?!’

The classroom winced.

‘Point two, concomitant to the first: what kind of utilitarian threatens to murder the _only_ competent king in the entire continent, the murder of whom would also precipitate another civil war, also to serve their own interests?’ Crowley changed the slide with a more violent _click_ than strictly necessary. This one read _MURDER **AND** CIVIL WAR_.

The classroom winced again.

‘Point three, which you will understand if you have half a brain—though I doubt that with some of you—: what kind of utilitarian kidnaps the daughter of the king who is very kindly _permitting_ them to settle in his lands and then demands her hand in marriage or else threatens a civil war that they are likely to lose?!’ The third slide read _KIDNAPPING **AND** FORCED MARRIAGE **AND** CIVIL WAR_. ‘How in boring, whitewashed Heaven does that benefit the greatest number of people?!’ Storming up to the first row, he demanded, ‘How would you like it if I called you all mushrooms—no, don’t answer that, mushrooms are too good for you lot—if I called you a leaky sewage pipe in the ceiling?’

Most of his students shook their heads mutely, subconsciously leaning away from him. The courageous Miss Device was the only one who responded. ‘Not very much, sir.’

‘Then _why_ ,’ Crowley asked, beginning so softly that everyone had to strain to hear and crescendoing until every other class on the floor could hear him, ‘would you call _Celegorm and Curufin UTILITARIANS_?!’

Aziraphale winced and leaned forwards. ‘Perhaps, er, moderate the volume a little, dearie?’ he suggested, motioning down with his hand.

With his flame-red hair, tight leather jacket, tighter pants, and opaque sunglasses, his mouth twisted into a terrifying smile, Crowley really did look like the axe-murdering demon of the philosophy department. Looking at his terrified students, he hissed, ‘Then maybe you should all WRITE BETTER!’ Smoke almost literally curling from his ears, Crowley threw, slapped, or slammed red-ink-covered midterm papers on his students’ desks. ‘If I see _any_ goddamn clowning like that on the final…’ He jabbed a finger at random students. ‘I will _end_ you.’

A young man raised his hand, squinting through his thick glasses. ‘Professor Crowley, sir, will we—will we be able to—to discuss questions with you, sir?’

Crowley tilted his head. ‘Newt, is it?’ At Newt’s nod, he continued, ‘Of course. My office hours are unchanged, and considering the abysmal garbage I had to read, you should all be making use of them!’

‘With all due respect, sir, if garbage is abysmal at being garbage… isn’t that no longer garbage? And wouldn't that be good for us?’

Newt had a point, Aziraphale thought, but Crowley seemed to disagree and only stared, deadpan, at the poor boy. Without looking at anyone else, he said, ‘Class dismissed. Get out if you don’t have questions. And if anyone needs their essay printed, let me know!’ he called. ‘Or sources; I’ve got tons in my office!’

—

Curled up with a blanket and hot cocoa by a roaring fire, Aziraphale snuggled closer into his husband’s side. ‘You’re soft inside and your students know it,’ he said fondly, glancing pointedly at the stack of sources Crowley was taking to the office the next day.

Crowley put an arm around him. ‘Shut up, angel.’

‘I love you.’

‘Ngk.’ But Crowley blushed furiously and kissed Aziraphale’s forehead, and that was code for _I love you too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6\. can you imagine writing an exam like crowley's? i'd die. unless it was about one of my hyperfixations, like the silmarillion :D  
> 7\. crowley is that teacher that seems very terrifying, but really will let you cry in his office
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed it! leave a comment and i'll love you forever :D <3<3<3

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked it! If you leave a comment, I will love you forever. You can find me on tumblr (where I mostly post Tolkien-related content) if you want @[fingolfino](https://fingolfino.tumblr.com).
> 
> P.S. Looks like there's a sequel in the works!


End file.
